


Give Thanks.  Give Praise.

by Pakeha



Category: Silent Hill, Silent Hill 4: The Room
Genre: Body Horror, Drabble, Horror, M/M, Medical Horror, Ritual, Torture, pregnancy horror
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-19
Updated: 2014-10-19
Packaged: 2018-02-21 18:17:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 439
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2477876
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pakeha/pseuds/Pakeha
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Henry’s stomach hurts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Give Thanks.  Give Praise.

**Author's Note:**

> Getting creepy for Halloween, dabbling with my favourite Silent Hill game.

Henry’s stomach hurts. 

Somewhere beneath his rib cage, in an indistinct, suffusing fashion, he hurts. He has been hurting. He will hurt.

Outside the window it is raining thick, sleeting curtains. 

Where the drops strike the ground steam rises, thick billows of it. The world is awash in a thousand shades of gray. Far away, perhaps - between buildings, down alleys and broken streets - black smoke pours. Sulfur and ash.

Henry reaches up to put his palm to his belly to push and soothe at the ache. Cold fingers wrap around his wrist long before he can make contact. 

It’s the steel grip of a surgeon that holds him still. 

A single low sound of unhappiness rumbles behind his closed lips, then Henry lapses back into silence, his unfocused gaze settled beyond the glass, between the rain drops falling outside. 

Time passes without much meaning in this place. Without night nor day nor season there is little point. The stupor drags on, each of Henry’s breaths silent as they shallowly fill his chest then slowly leave. Something twists in his belly and even in this place beyond time he knows somehow it’s running short. He blinks and something very very small in the back on his head is screaming. 

His stomach hurts. 

Rain falls.

_Lie down Henry. Let the surgeon do his work._

Words whisper and Henry sighs and closes his eyes. 

“No.” He mouths and at his ear a hot consumptive breath laughs gently. 

“Yes.”

Cold fingers on his wrist hold tight and push until his arm his folded against his chest, until he is tipping backwards onto his operating table, until another cold arm catches the back of his neck and lowers him with care all the way to the metal surface. 

“Sweet Henry.” Walter murmurs, and Henry’s view of him is unfocused. He is not here right now. He is not. 

“Mother will be so pleased.”

The occupants of the room shake their heads and their hands and their arms and their legs and they lurch a step closer. Their instruments rattle and Henry does not look. 

He listens to the rain. 

“Today,” Walter murmurs to everyone but Henry. “God is born. Give thanks. Give praise.”

The silent room trembles, the flesh red walls contract and Walter’s smile is beatific. 

Something in Henry’s belly twists and stabs and _aches_. He turns his head on the cold, dirty steel, and he watches the rain. 

“God-” He croaks, under his breath as that part of him that screams fades along with everything else, but no one is listening. 

No one is there. 

Walter picks up his scalpel, and begins.


End file.
